Page 5 of The Storyteller of Krakow

3

1935, SIEDLCE, EASTERN POLAND

It was a Wednesday, and Piotr was in the parlour when I woke. His skinny frame barely filled the wooden chair he sat on, his head bowed over a game of chess that he played against himself.

‘Are they gone?’ I asked him, looking about to see if our parents were still there, then yawned.

‘It’s almost midday,’ he said without raising his chestnut-haired head.

I slumped on the emerald-green sofa and saw that he gave me a quick look, noting my bare feet, my trousers that had a rip in the left knee, and the sunflower-yellow blouse I had misbuttoned.

He shook his head and went back to his game.

‘You winning?’ I asked.

‘Always.’

‘What’s the point? I mean, playing against yourself. Where’s the competition?’

He shrugged. ‘I like playing.’

‘Say,’ I said, sitting up. ‘Let’s go do something. Play outside. Like we used to.’

‘Like what?’ he said without looking up. He moved his white rook towards a black pawn.

‘I don’t know. Just something. I can’t sit inside all day again. It’s too warm. There’s got to be something to do.’

‘Mama and Tata said you have to stay indoors after what you did,’ he said.

‘But they aren’t here.’ I stood and went to him, standing behind him, watching him as he considered his next move against himself.

‘And what I did,’ I said, ‘did not warrant them telling me to stay indoors when it is summer and the sun is burning through the windows and baking us inside out.’

‘You hit Maria,’ he said, then moved the rook, taking the pawn. I imagined that it was a whale, taking that thing in its mouth, swallowing it whole.

‘She deserved it,’ I said. ‘She said I looked like a boy.’

‘You do.’

‘I don’t. Who says girls have to wear dresses, boys trousers? I say, wear what you are comfortable in.’

He shook his head gently like Tata did when I tried to explain my misbehaviours. He didn’t understand me, and he never would. But he couldn’t stay mad at me, and I knew sooner or later Piotr would give in.

‘What game?’ he asked, his finger hovering over his queen, wondering if he should move it yet in retaliation for his own previous attack.

‘Let’s go to Nowak’s orchards,’ I suggested. ‘There will be apples on the ground, that little lake that we can put our hot feet in, and the horses we can say hullo to.’

It was the horse that did it. Piotr loved animals, as I did, but he loved them more.

It was not far to Nowak’s orchards, taking us past the old church on the corner, towards fields of corn that were still in the hot air, not a breath of wind to make them bob their heads. I could feel sweat tracking its way down my back, my hair damp on the nape of my neck. I looked to Piotr, who had picked a daisy and was twirling it between his thumb and forefinger, unbothered by the heat.

Nowak was not one who liked children playing in his orchards, and we had been warned time and time again by our parents not to go. Yet it was a place of quiet, of the gentle rustle of leaves, the clear surface of the lake that would call to me on summer days, and for once, it stirred something in Piotr too, as he would allow himself this one opportunity to disobey our parents.

Soon we reached the orchards. Red and green baubles littered the ground. I stopped and found an apple that was not too bruised, brushed it against my shirt to make the skin shine.

‘Get one,’ I said, then crunched into the fruit, the deliciousness of the juice running with abandon down my chin.

I saw him bend down, then quickly straighten. He looked ahead, through the thicket of trees, then back to me.